


When in Rome

by Mrs King of Hell (Slytherkins)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood As Lube, Chains, Dean needs to be given an excuse, Happy Ending, Kidnapped Dean Winchester, M/M, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rimming, Sock Garters, Timeline What Timeline, Violent Sex, crowley likes it rough, dean winchester is a stubborn bastard, how else was he going to get in his pants?, there are plans to make this a regular thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-03-05 19:09:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18834910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slytherkins/pseuds/Mrs%20King%20of%20Hell
Summary: "What Dean hadn’t figured out yet waswhyhe had been captured. The smarmy bastard had him on speed dial, for fuck’s sake, so any matter Crowley felt required Dean’s abduction and restraint was sure to be nothing good. Whatever it was, Dean was determined Crowley would get nothing out of him."





	When in Rome

“You know what your problem is, Squirrel? You never can admit when you’re licked.”

Crowley’s voice echoed off the filthy concrete walls of the dimly lit industrial room, but Dean couldn’t see him yet. The door he had come through was behind the lattice metal columns the elder Winchester was bound between. Dean could hear the shuffle of Italian leather carrying him closer.

“In a way, it’s admirable, really. Or perhaps the word I’m looking for is...‘precious’,” said Crowley, stepping into view. He simpered, and Dean fixed him with a glare that could melt steel.

The demon chuckled delightedly. “ _That’s it_ ,” he said, jabbing a finger toward his captive before turning to pace, hands in pockets. Crowley never just spoke, he performed, and this was part of his blocking. Dean would be willing to bet Baby that Crowley’d been constructing this speech since even before he’d received word that Dean had been captured.

What Dean hadn’t figured out yet was _why_ he had been captured. The smarmy bastard had him on speed dial, for fuck’s sake, so any matter Crowley felt required Dean’s abduction and restraint was sure to be nothing good. Whatever it was, Dean was determined Crowley would get nothing out of him.

“It’s that fighting spirit, Ducky. That’s what endears you to people in spite of the fact that you’re a raging arsehole.”

Dean sneered, “Let me guess. You’re here to break it.”

“Oh, wouldn’t dream of it,” said Crowley with feigned appall. “Quite the contrary, actually. I _want_ you to fight, Dean,” he told him, his voice dropping to a whisper as his head bent to look the dangling man square in the face. “I want you to fight all...the way...through.”

Crowley’s tone had been sinister, but Dean’s glare never faltered. Fear was a waste of time. There was no busting out of his bonds. The shackles weren’t painful, but they were sound. They’d left him strung up long enough to be assured of their integrity. Whatever was going to happen would happen. The only thing Dean could control at the moment was his composure.

“What? No witty rejoinder?” asked Crowley, straightening to resume his act. “Could that be because you know--this time--there’s no one coming to save you? I mean, you and Moose had that little domestic,” he pointed out, counting Dean’s usual saviors off with his hand. “He doesn’t even realize he’s needed. And after some of the things you said,” he tutted, shaking his head, “I almost wonder if he’d turn up anyway.”

It _had_ been a row for the ages, though damned if Dean knew how Crowley knew so much about it. It had come to blows, but only after they’d both thrown words twice as painful as punches. Dean’s lip was still split and swollen. He had no doubt Sammy would sport his black eye for the next week, at least. The motel room might never recover.

“If Castiel was going to answer your prayers, he’d have done it by now.” Another finger, another doomed hope. “He’s probably in a dust-up with some celestial miscreant of one sort or another. Bigger fish to fry, as it were.”

Cas’ absence was troubling, even considering he didn’t have his wings. Dean suspected Crowley was just trying to demoralize him, though. The demon was too thorough to have neglected to put up angel warding, wherever he had them holed up. Dean had never thought to ask if such a thing scrambled angel radio, but it stood to reason. His prayers probably never left the building.

“You’ve killed everyone else you’ve ever known or loved who loved you well enough to try and rescue your surly, alcohol-drenched, denim-clad backside,” the demon said, extending another finger, “and you’re realizing that, for once, you are well and truly buggered,” Crowley concluded, giving Dean an almost pitying look. “Or at least, you’re about to be.”

“Go ahead. Enjoy the moment, assbag,” said Dean with more defiance than he felt. “Cos we both know, the first thing I’m gonna do when I get out of these chains is knock that smug look right off your toady little face.”

“Ow. That was a bit below the belt, don’t you think?” Crowley winced. “Speaking of...”

Crowley reached out and grabbed Dean’s belt buckle, looking him straight in the eyes while unfastening it. Dean spluttered an objection, but Crowley tugged the strip of leather free of Dean’s belt loops before the man managed to form any actual words.

“Here, you might want to bite down on this. No? I admit, I prefer to scream as well.”

“Fuck you, Crowley.”

Dean was flustered enough by the unexpected snatch at his waistband that it was not nearly as threatening as he’d intended. His cheeks were warm, and it pissed him off because, by the self-satisfied look on his face, Crowley had noticed the blush.

“Oh, believe me,” he said, tossing Dean’s belt aside before reaching to undo his own, “I’m getting there.”

Dean’s glare faltered, and he gave Crowley a sideways look as he started to suspect the demon might not be speaking metaphorically.

“What? Did you think you were trussed up for some medieval torture session à la Alastair?” said Crowley, dispensing with the belt and reaching to loosen his tie. “How pedestrian. Their idea of torture’s so... _straight-forward_ ,” he said with a grimace as if their lack of imagination caused him personal affront. “Hardly any psychological element at all. I imagine that’s why it took so long for them to break you before,” he theorized, slipping off his jacket and draping it over a rusty chair that stood nearby before dragging that chair over to face Dean. Crowley took a seat and crossed his legs, giving Dean a long, appraising look.

“Without a helpless and imperiled Samantha in one’s back pocket, one has to be far more creative. You’re downright pertinacious,” said Crowley, explaining Dean to Dean while he unbuttoned his cuffs to roll back his designer sleeves, “and a part of you even likes the pain, though you’re too emotionally constipated to admit it. Hell, I suspect you like it _because_ you’re emotionally constipated.”

Dean wished the bastard would shut his trap already, even though he knew that, once he did, the torture would start. Though really, he’d probably yap all through that, too, which would make the ordeal even more painful.

“You feel you deserve it, don’t you, Squirrel?” Crowley asked with a thoughtful tilt of his head, sounding more like Dean’s therapist than his captor, “‘Cause you know you’re an arse. Hell, you embrace the fact. It’s one of the things I like best about you,” he admitted with unmistakable fondness. “Do you ever wonder, though, if you’d just let yourself have a good cry every now and then, whether a bit of damage wouldn’t give you such a sconge?”

Dean doubted he’d meant the comment literally, but it was close enough to the truth to embarrass him. Crowley gave an infuriating snicker at the renewed blush fueling the silent hostility Dean blasted toward him with his every breath.

Seeming encouraged by it, the demon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as if he were about to impart a secret. “See, what I understand, and what they never seemed to, is all you really have--though you do have it in _spades_ \--all that fuels that blasted stubbornness...is pride.”

Dean rolled his eyes. Did this asshole expect a cookie for being so fucking perceptive? The hunter wasn’t nearly complicated enough to account for how pleased Crowley seemed with himself for having puzzled him out.

“Take that away,” Crowley shrugged, “and the facade crumbles. Take that away,” he said meaningfully, “and you can’t help but betray what you really are.”

“Do you _ever_ shut up?” Dean drawled.

The twinkle in Crowley’s eye in response was unsettling, as was the way he licked his lips. “Well. Let’s see if I can’t find some other occupation for my tongue, shall we?”

Dean scowled at the comment, and his heart started tripping when Crowley rose and moved behind him. It was not because he anticipated pain. Dean was a pro at pain. It was because he _didn’t_ anticipate it; at least, not the usual sort. He didn’t know what to expect, and that scared him more than any threat could.

Crowley pressed much too much of himself against Dean as he reached around to pop the button of the man’s jeans, and Dean muttered profanities under his breath. He’d have shouted them, but he could barely breathe, struggling to process what was happening.

Crowley couldn’t remove Dean’s pants since he was bound at the ankles, but he worked the denim as low as it would go before reaching for the waistband of Dean’s boxer briefs. He didn’t like to give Crowley the satisfaction of vocalizing his discomfort, but he couldn’t help grunting an objection as those, too, were shimmied past his knees. He couldn’t quiet his trembling, either, or the panicked snort of breath forced through his nose as he pursed his lips to prevent himself from cursing. He felt helpless and exposed. He felt vulnerable, and Dean hated few things more.

It wasn’t like Crowley had never stripped a victim before laying into them, but there was a very clear sense that this was not business as usual, and Dean’s face was blazing even before he felt Crowley’s hands palm both his ass cheeks from below, parting them with his thumbs. A shuddered, “ _What the-_?” was all Dean managed before he felt the flat of Crowley’s tongue hit his pucker, and he had to bite his lip to stifle the resulting groan.

Dean squirmed in his bonds, but Crowley followed his every move. The wet sensation of the demon’s tongue lapping and prodding was alien and overwhelming, and Dean couldn’t quite decide if it felt torturous or just disgusting. Dean felt like he was going to be sick, but the demon was relentless. Though Crowley was the one with his face currently buried in another man’s ass, Dean felt somehow humiliated, a sense that was compounded by his body’s unexpected response to the unending stimulation.

“Ready to admit yet that you’ve been licked?”

Crowley only detached his mouth long enough to make the snide comment, and the chuckle that followed buzzed against the sensitive flesh of Dean’s asshole, causing a small moan to escape him unbidden. The shock of it allowed the man to finally find his voice.

“ _C’mon!_ ” he barked. “If you wanna hurt me, just do it!”

“Hurt you?” Crowley asked. Dean was relieved that he had to remove his tongue to do so until he felt Crowley’ thumb stand substitute, massaging the taut ring of muscle so the demon was free to monologue. “Why would I want that? No, no. I want to make you feel _good_ , Dean,” he said, his voice oily. Crowley’s unoccupied hand took hold of Dean’s bare hip, causing him to shudder as it devoured as much of the hunter’s flesh as the stubby digits could manage on its way to Dean’s reluctantly hardening dick.

“Looks like I’m managing it, too,” Crowley taunted, taking it loosely in hand. Dean couldn’t respond except to tremble. Part of him wanted to shout at the limey prick to back off. The other anticipated the demon’s weak grip tightening around the base of his shaft and could not bring itself to protest. The inner conflict caused Dean’s eyes to scrunch shut as though he could simply pretend none of this was happening so he wouldn’t have to chose a side.

Dean felt the fingers playing with his ass retreat almost unwillingly, but Crowley did not relinquish his grip on Dean’s manhood as he shifted to stand in front of the hunter who still stubbornly refused to look at him.

“ _That expression_ ,” Crowley remarked with a maddening little laugh. It was breathy enough to indicate Dean wasn’t the only one being affected by Crowley’s torments. He finally wrapped his fingers properly around him to run a firm grip up and down Dean’s length, bringing it to full attention almost immediately, and it was all Dean could do not to relax into the sensation.

“You _hate_ it, don’t you?”

Dean flinched away from the sound of Crowley’s lilting voice in his ear.

“Because you don’t hate it, do you?”

The hand Crowley wasn’t using to work him snuck its way up the front of the hunter’s sweat-damp black t-shirt.

“Your body’s betrayed you. You’re so used to forcing its compliance, making it power through pain and injury,” Crowley went on, his breath puffing against the sensitive skin of Dean’s neck, making him shiver. “Now it’s gone rogue, and it _pisses you off_.”

Dean didn’t trust himself to respond. He was pissed off, there was no doubt, but that wasn’t the only thing he was. He was afraid if he unsealed his mouth, he’d give voice to more than just his indignation. It was getting harder to avoid it, though. His lungs were objecting to the inadequate intake of air, demanding that he part his lips to allow him to pant properly before he blacked out.

Finally, Dean obliged, growling with each exhale to make his anger plain; though it sounded more like grunts of pleasure, even to his own ears, and the scowl he attempted to fix the demon with was so softened by involuntary arousal that he was afraid he only looked imploring.

Crowley drank it all in, seeming almost intoxicated by the sight of his effect on the hunter. “Aren’t you going to beg?” he rasped, his face drifting closer to Dean’s as if tempted to kiss him. “Aren’t you going to _demand_ that I stop? If I keep going, after all, you’re going to come, and then how will you feel about yourself in the morning?”

The comment made Dean’s expression harden, reawakened his stubbornness, and he leveled a proper glare at the demon despite the sweat beading on his forehead.

“ _Attaboy_ ,” Crowley winked, breaking into a slow grin. Then he sank to his knees, and Dean panicked.

He knew he should not be nearly as turned on as he was by the understanding of what was about to happen. It should be incomprehensible that the sight of _Crowley,_ looking up at him cheekily as he extended his tongue toward Dean’s cock, would make the thing twitch in anticipation. Dean shook his head and wrenched his eyes away, almost choking on the groan he refused to let escape from his throat when he felt the demonic muscle that had been so recently embedded in his ass wrap itself around the tip of his dick.

“S-stop.” The entreaty had been unreasonably quiet to have required such herculean effort.

“What was that?” Crowley queried before suctioning his mouth to the underside of Dean’s cock and sliding it slowly down the measure of it.

 _The fucker._ Dean had barely managed to stammer the last request without following it with a moan. He wasn’t sure he could manage it again, especially since Crowley had moved on to his balls.

“Stop, dammit!” he growled, completely unable to stifle the unambiguous chirrup of pleasure that chased closely after the command.

“Not very persuasive,” Crowley tutted. Dean felt the presence of a freshly spit-slicked finger being introduced to the crack of his ass again just before Crowley swallowed the not-inconsiderable length of him. Dean might have been impressed by the feat if he wasn’t so close to passing out.

“Stop... _please_.” It had been a whine. He knew he sounded utterly pitiful, but he hadn’t been able to help it. Dean’s defiance was in mortal danger of being consumed entirely by arousal, and he _so_ did not want that to happen that he was growing desperate to end this before it could.

Crowley’s mouth slipped off Dean’s cock with a pop, but his hand quickly replaced it, picking up where Crowley’s tongue had left off. “Ooh. Almost caught that one,” he said conversationally as he stroked Dean faster, prodded his asshole more firmly. “My hearing must be going. Mind repeating? Bit louder.”

Screw this cat and mouse bullshit. Dean wished the bastard would just skip to the inevitable. He wanted to get this over with.

“ _Fuck you,_ ” Dean spat, angered enough by Crowley’s toying to manage a proper response that time.

To his surprise, the demon abruptly ceased all his attentions. Crowley shrugged and rose to his feet. “If you insist,” he said, as if he’d just been waiting for the go ahead. He unzipped the front of his slacks and reached into his silk boxers.

Dean immediately took back his wish.

“ _Son_ of a _bitch._ ” He shuddered, observing the thing Crowley had just freed with trepidation. Though he recoiled, Dean couldn’t seem to pull his eyes away from it.

Crowley smirked. “Did you think I picked this meatsuit for its luxurious head of hair?” he said, stroking an erection entire inches longer than Dean’s with a girth to match.

To Dean’s relief, the demon did not station himself behind him. Crowley approached and lined their cocks together instead. He almost required two hands to grasp them as he worked the appendages against one another. Knowing it was the lesser of evils made Dean more comfortable with the act than he should be. It only took a few strokes for his flagging arousal to reignite and he was panting, his resistance trying and failing to regain a foothold.

Crowley watched Dean losing his internal battle and gave the man a smug look. “I _know_ what you got up to in Hell, Dean,” he whispered. The demon’s voice was low and smooth for all its usual gravel, the accent making it easier to digest despite what it was saying. “I was Lilith’s pet, didn’t you know that? Didn’t get too involved with the Big Plan--you know what I thought about that brouhaha--but it never hurts to have friends in high places.”

One of the demon’s hands released them in order to reach again for the Winchester’s neglected ass. Dean was ashamed to realize he’d missed its being there.

“Point is,” Crowley went on, fondling both sides of the man, “even after the seal was broken, you were a key chess piece. They wanted you watched like a hawk while you were Downstairs, and guess who did the watching. I don’t know why you’re so flustered. This is child’s play compared to the things you got up to in the Pit,” Crowley smirked, “compared to the things I saw you _enjoy_. And you didn’t just pitch, did you? Neh, you did your share of catching, too.”

The pressure against his asshole increased, and Dean whimpered with the effort necessary not to press back into Crowley’s curling finger.

“Took it like a champ, didn’t you? Let yourself get nice and pissed off about it so you could really have fun returning the favor after. Oh, don’t look so troubled. It’s fine. It was _Hell_. We literally created depravity. Vice is our bag, baby. When in Rome…” Crowley added, as if that absolved him. Dean was almost too insensible to resist the notion.

The thing that had always shamed Dean the most about his time in Hell wasn’t necessarily what he did there. It was that he hadn’t strictly hated it. At least, not after he’d accepted Alastair's bargain. In fact, he’d liked most of what came after, and he knew he shouldn’t have. It wasn’t that Dean felt that homosexuality was inherently wrong, just that it was wrong for _him_. He carried with him this sense that anything enjoyed in Hell was disgraceful by default, and that he should reject anything that made him reflect fondly on his time Downstairs or the person he’d been while there.

It all came rushing back, though, when Crowley finally stopped threatening it and actually plunged his finger into the hunter’s ass. Dean was embarrassed by how little resistance it met, both from the man and his beleaguered hole. Crowley’s other hand wandered up Dean’s chest to allow him to concentrate more fully on what was happening elsewhere. The muscles of Dean’s neck wilted with surrender and his head slipped forward to rest on Crowley’s shoulder.

“There it is,” Crowley murmured, deftly slipping in a second finger. Dean didn’t even attempt to hold back a grateful moan as they both sank true. “Been a while, has it, poppet?”

Though he highly objected to the situation and his present partner, Dean was not as staunchly opposed to the activity itself as he’d once been. Purgatory had limbered Dean’s mindset. The circumstances had given him a valid excuse to revel in some of the same delights he’d tasted in the Pit without feeling so dirty about it afterward. At first, that attitude had only applied to the bloodier pastimes; but considering that killing gave him a hardon, after a while, it had seemed alright to indulge in some of his equally carnal but less lethal Hell hobbies with Benny. Just once in a while. It had never been romantic. More a matter of one buddy doing another a solid, or two buddies doing a mutual one.

“This jawline. You just don’t know what it does to me,” crooned Crowley before running his tongue along the scruffy contour conveniently within licking distance. Dean grimaced, refusing to accept he liked the sensation despite that it caused his breath to catch. Somehow, being assaulted in an abandoned warehouse by the King of Hell reminded Dean more of his time with the cajun bloodsucker than it did of his time Downstairs.

“Tell me you don’t think there’s something between us, Dean,” said Crowley as if reading his thoughts. “Tell me you’ve never wanted to hate fuck me against a wall. It’s okay, you can admit it,” he purred, his fingers tweaking one of Dean’s nipples, making the hunter groan appreciatively, “you find me irritatingly adorable.”

Dean _didn’t_ want to admit it, especially while the demon’s fingers were working themselves even further into his ass, but he had considered it more than once after the Mark had gifted him with black eyes and his conscience wasn’t bothered by Hellish things. It had occurred to him then that it might be fun to make the King of Hell his bitch, and it was a sign of his reluctant fondness that he’d refrained.

Dean couldn’t decide if what Crowley was doing to him now eroded that fondness or reinforced it. He was feeling increasingly charitable, but he wasn’t yet ready to submit to this entirely. He wasn’t ready to allow himself to enjoy it as much as he could, though the reasons for that seemed harder to recall with each thrust of Crowley’s fingers.

_…_

_Crowley’s fingers._

The brow resting against the demon’s shoulder furrowed. Dean managed to detach himself from his arousal just enough to reorient himself. His head cleared marginally, and he lifted it to scowl at the whiskered face so close to his own.

Fucking _Crowley_ had him bound and stripped. Fucking _Crowley_ had his fingers in Dean’s ass, for fuck’s sake. And Dean was letting himself enjoy it?

Screw that. Screw that right in the face.

Dean tugged against his restraints, attempting to create space between them, and the demon realized he was losing him, that Dean’s carefully cultivated arousal was slipping and his resistance was rallying. Dean’s lip lifted in a snarl.

Without slowing his assault on Dean’s ass, Crowley stepped back behind the man. Dean expected for the niceties to end now--for the bastard to finally put the fucking _Midgard Serpent_ to use--and he tried to prepare himself. But it seemed Crowley merely hadn’t been managing the angle he wanted. Before Dean could surface from his daze completely, Crowley located the hunter’s prostate, stroking the thing almost too firmly as if in punishment for Dean’s decision to be uncooperative.

The moan Dean shouted was involuntary, and it echoed through the cavernous room as if to mock him. Dean canceled the sound with a defiant roar.

“You realize I could have killed you a dozen times over, don’t you?” came Crowley’s frustrated hiss in Dean’s ear. "And after that little dose of humiliation you served me in front of my subordinates, I considered going through with it once you were free of the Mark.”

The demon worked him harder. The spit he’d used to ease the way had long since dried, and the friction burned like a motherfucker, but Dean couldn’t find it in him to care. As forcefully as Crowley twisted his digits inside of Dean, as many bruises as the knuckles of the fingers not stretching him left at the periphery, the tips of the ones that were flicked the man’s prostate with such a deftness, it was as if Dean’s ass was an instrument and Crowley a goddamned virtuoso.

Dean somehow managed not to let his mouth fall open to release a stream of unintelligible approval, and his aggravation at the effort required to refrain only fueled his stubbornness.

His recalcitrance seemed to inspire the same in Crowley. “You may be Dean _Fucking_ Winchester. You may have an angel in your back pocket and all the tricks your daddies taught you tucked up your sleeve, but you’re still just a man. _I’m the bloody King of fucking Hell itself_ ,” Crowley growled, his voice growing harsher but no louder. His fingers bit into Dean’s cheeks as the demon seized his face to force him to look him in the eye. Despite the ferocity of his words, Crowley’s expression conveyed nothing but unadulterated lust. “You’re only alive because I’ve never seriously wanted you dead.”

Dean knew he was speaking the truth. Dean had had ample opportunity to kill Crowley, too. Had had ample reason and had always refrained. He didn’t understand this dance he and Crowley did, this game they played, but he couldn’t deny they played it. Even now, with Crowley ravaging his ass and Dean glaring at the demon as if aspiring to set him aflame through will alone, there was a twisted sense of camaraderie.

They understood one another. They believed the absolute worst of each other and instead of an enemy, when face to face, it seemed they saw themselves. They both pretended not to trust the other but then repeatedly did just that. They seemed to enjoy hurting one another, too; but then, everyone knew they were both sadomasochists.

For all his rebellion, Dean wasn’t sure how much he actually hated what was happening at the moment; and he had a feeling Crowley was well aware, that he at least suspected what Dean refused to admit to himself: a part of Dean wanted this, even this way. Perhaps, especially this way. A part of him craved it. Crowley also knew that, like in Purgatory, Dean had to be given an excuse to indulge.

That’s all this was, Dean realized. Crowley was being too gentle with him for it to be anything else, despite the absence of adequate lube. Dean _knew_ how demons fucked. He had experienced Hell ruts before. They were violent, often bloody, and while that held its own charm, particularly for denizens of the underworld, this was something vastly removed. Crowley was wrapping the encounter in enough theater that Dean could accept its happening. By not giving Dean a choice, Crowley was letting them both get what they secretly wanted.

Crowley’d spent weeks in crummy dive bars with the man, drinking beer he didn’t like with people he couldn’t stand, waiting for Dean to stumble off the karaoke stage and into Crowley’s bed...but with Crowley, for once, and not the waitress. But Dean hadn’t been able to bring himself. His _pride_ hadn’t allowed him. Now, Crowley was merely taking matters into his own hands...along with Dean’s throbbing cock.

Crowley wiped the precum from the tip with a knowing smirk. “It’s a thin line between love and hate. But since I don’t think either of us is capable of love, really, let’s go with lust, eh? What would you do if I released you right now, Dean? Would you kill me? Or would you fuck me?” he goaded, giving Dean’s prostate a dig that made the man groan. “Well,” Crowley amended after a moment’s thought, “I suppose you could do both. Just how damaged you are might determine in what order.”

And there it was. Crowley was the one craving the Hell rut. He’d wound Dean up, and now he was ready to let him go.

Dean was ready, too. “Why don’t we go with both at the same time?”

Crowley stopped thrusting and looked at Dean as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard him correctly. Dean’s steady stare seemed to assure him he had. The demon gave a chuckle that soon built to a full-throated laugh, and Crowley slipped around to stand in front of Dean. He hesitated, giving Dean the opportunity to recant, but the hunter’s expression held only challenge.

“Squirrel, you’ve got yourself a deal,” he said, grasping him by the back of the neck before leaning in to seal it.

Crowley’s bristly mouth mashed itself to Dean’s. Dean felt the split in his lip reopen, he tasted blood, but that didn’t stop him from returning the kiss. It continued even after he heard a snap of fingers and felt his cuffs open and fall away. In fact, Dean took a fistful of Crowley’s pretentious tailoring to ensure that it did, forcing his tongue past the demon’s lips.

Crowley moaned around the muscle plundering his mouth. Before he could reciprocate, though, Dean shoved him to arm’s length and backhanded him as hard as his restraint-fatigued arm would allow, knocking Crowley halfway across the room and fulfilling the promise he’d made earlier.

As Crowley regained his footing, Dean fixed the demon with a blistering look. He was practically breathing fire, and he could see a reflection of it flash in Crowley’s eyes as he took in the sight of him.

Dean peeled off his t-shirt and tossed it to the dusty floor before struggling to free himself of the jeans wadded around his ankles, and Crowley wiped the blood from his chin with a delighted smirk, seeming to appreciate the striptease.

“We’re a regular matching set,” he said, tonguing the new-made split in his lip. But suddenly Dean was rid of his denim and stalking toward him in all his naked, furious glory, and Crowley dropped trou in an attempt to catch up before Dean reached him.

Crowley kicked away his shed slacks in readiness, and Dean looked the pantsless royal up and down with a sneer. “Matching set, huh? I wish. Nice sock garters, you fuckin’ dandy,” he remarked.

The comment made the demon practically giddy, and he was still cackling when Dean seized him by his suit vest.

Giggles turned to growls then. The thin line had been crossed, but as intense as they were, there was nothing loving about the looks they blasted at one another as Dean wrestled Crowley to the nearest wall and then to the ground.

The demon didn’t wilt in submission. He grappled with the man, though not quite hard enough to prevent Dean from pinning him to the floor, and when Dean moved to wrap his fingers around Crowley’s throat, the demon lifted his chin to oblige him.

It was practically choreographed, and really, if Crowley had been watching him in the Pit, he knew exactly what to expect from Dean now. In fact, the demon seemed to have been doing everything in his power to ensure the encounter came straight out of Hell’s playbook, and Dean realized, not only could he indulge in his Pit-inspired preferences, he could indulge in the very worst of them. The demon was perhaps the only person on earth Dean wouldn’t mind inflicting them on. Crowley wasn’t strictly a person, after all. Right now, they were both monsters, and neither seemed to mind in the least.

“Good to finally know how to shut you up,” Dean snarled, adjusting his grip as he shifted into position.

Crowley couldn’t respond other than to wrap his legs around Dean’s waist. The hunter smirked at his enthusiasm.

“King of Hell? I don’t see royalty. All I see is a little bitch,” he said, spitting the words in Crowley’s face. “Is this what you wanted?” he taunted, searching with the tip of his dick for the right spot. “Huh, Crowley? Is that the reason you went slumming it with me? Were you just hoping to get a piece of this?”

He dipped his face teasingly toward Crowley’s, and the demon seemed to stretch toward him, his lips parted hungrily, but the hands around his neck prevented him from making contact. Instead of closing the distance, Dean’s fingers tightened and, though Crowley tugged weakly at Dean’s wrists, his eyes rolled back in his head in what looked more like rapture than pain.

Dean’s lips drifted to Crowley’s ear so his low hiss could be heard over the demon’s strangled attempt at breath. “Howl at the moon, my ass. Well, here it is, big boy,” he said, prodding Crowley sharply to warn him what was coming, “ _fucking take it._ ”

The legs draped over his hips squeezed them encouragingly in response, and Dean didn’t hold back.

Unlike Dean, Crowley’s ass was completely unprepared, but Dean wasn’t concerned. This wasn’t Benny, so it didn’t matter. This was a Hell rut. There was usually enough blood to ease the worst of the friction, and Dean didn’t just sink into the man beneath him, he rammed himself hard and deep with a single, vicious thrust. He felt Crowley tear to accommodate him, felt his insides resist as Dean’s cock forced them to shift. The demon’s ass was blazing and tight, and embedding himself in it was so blissful that Dean’s grip slackened enough to allow Crowley to gurgle out a, “ _Fuck_ , yes,” as Dean’s balls settled flush.

Dean couldn’t sustain his aggression, though. After the thorough teasing he’d received, it only took a few thrusts for him to get lost in the act. His eyes fell closed and his fingers slipped from Crowley’s throat completely. He didn’t resist the hands that pulled him down to meet the demon or the reject the tongue that worked its way into his mouth, though they were both too busy panting and moaning to do anything artistic there.

Crowley’s hand found the swell of Dean’s ass, urging him to fuck him harder, and the man obliged, rising and grasping the backs of Crowley’s knees to press the demon’s legs toward his chest, spreading him open even further so Dean could pound into him properly.

“Fucking… _do it_ ,” Crowley barked, practically frothing at the mouth. His arms went to the wall behind his head to brace himself and provide the necessary resistance. “You call this fucking? Put your bloody back into it, Squirrel!”

The growl Dean loosed in response was barely human, but he did as he was told, and Crowley’s head drifted back to the floor as he surrendered himself to it. His arms went limp and approval bubbled from his throat as Dean proceeded to fuck him into and up the wall. It was wild and imprecise, sacrificing accuracy in favor of brutality, but Dean’s cock somehow always found its way home in Crowley’s ass each time, despite that it didn’t always drive straight.

 _Holy fuck._ What had taken Dean so long to give in to Crowley? Who else would ever let him demolish them like this? No matter how violently Dean rammed his hips, grunting with the force of it, bruising them both on impact, it was not hard enough for the demon. It was raw and savage and satisfying in the same way killing had been in Purgatory. Dean could have kept it up for who knows how long if he hadn’t been half exhausted before they’d even started. If Crowley wasn’t satisfied before Dean gave out, it’d be his own fault for leaving Dean chained for so long.

The demon seemed to sense him flagging, and Crowley’s hand went to his cock, stroking it furiously to take advantage of Dean’s while it lasted. The hunter was close, and it was all he could do to hold off until he saw Crowley’s release stain his silk vest. With a final few shoves and a groan, Dean left his own deep inside the demon, waiting until his cock gave its last, weary pump to fall away from Crowley and lay panting on the concrete floor.

The sweat on his back picked up every speck of dirt and grit from the cold, hard surface, but Dean was too sated to care. Both of them lay for what seemed like forever, not moving except for the heave of their chests as they attempted to catch their breath. Dean felt like he might never move again.

“That was…” Crowley murmured finally, awe momentarily robbing him of words, “everything I dreamed it’d be and more.”

Dean couldn’t deny that his ego was stroked at having left the verbose bastard practically speechless. “Yeah, well,” he grunted, trying to convince his limbs to work again, “you can address the gift basket to the bunker.”

Every muscle in his body was sore in the best of ways, but Dean eventually managed to propel himself upright. Crowley was still slumped and motionless, half-sitting half-lying against the wall where Dean had driven him, staring dreamily into the empty space in front of him, and Dean found the grin on Crowley’s face endearing before he remembered that he hated the asshole. The feeling had already slipped in and taken hold, though, and Dean grumbled irritatedly at the both of them.

“Speaking of the bunker,” said Crowley, finally returning to himself, “Samantha’s been trying to call.” He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the jacket draped over the back of the only piece of furniture in the room. “I let him know you were tied up at the moment.”

Crowley chuckled, and Dean scrubbed a hand down his face with a groan, wondering just what in hell he was going to tell Sammy about why he’d been awol.

“You know, I don’t think your brother likes me,” added Crowley, seeming genuinely bothered as he shimmied his way to a sitting position.

“Hell, _I_ don’t like you,” Dean groused, struggling unsteadily to his feet to collect his clothes.

Crowley’s answering gaze was so smitten, you’d have thought Dean had just professed his undying love. “Anyroad,” he said, pulling himself from the floor and waddling gingerly over to his coat. “You should probably give Mother a ring and let him know you’re on your way home.” He plucked Dean’s phone from his inside jacket pocket and offered it to him. “I’m certain he’s worried sick.”

Dean took it cautiously, almost expecting some catch, but there was no guile in Crowley’s expression. “That’s really it?” he asked, still mildly incredulous. “You’re just letting me go?”

“Got what I wanted, didn’t I?” Crowley shrugged, swiping at the blood and cum dripping down the inside of his thigh. The demon blinked from view for a moment and reappeared with a towel in hand. Two, Dean realized, one of which he extended toward the hunter.

Dean scowled as he snatched it. “How’d you know I wouldn’t just kill you?” he asked, wiping the same filthy mixture from his nethers. At least demons didn’t shit.

“How? With what?” Crowley smirked, tossing his towel aside and crawling carefully back into his slacks. “You think too highly of yourself, mate.”

Dean just stared at him for a moment. “ _Man_ ,” he said with a shake of his head, not nearly as aggravated as he felt he should be about the whole episode. But then, he’d come too hard to be especially bothered by anything at all for at least the next few hours, “You went to an awful lot of trouble just to get laid.”

“You’re a stubborn bastard,” explained Crowley in an exasperated grumble, nonetheless appreciating the view as Dean bent to tug on his jeans, “how else was I going to manage it? Shoot you a text asking if you fancied a shag? Send you flowers and chocolates? I inundated you with beer and strippers for weeks, and you kept just bedding the strippers,” he bitched, clearly still carrying a grudge.

Dean cocked a half smile as he stuck his arms through his shirt sleeves. “Heh. Yeah.”

Crowley didn’t seem to approve of how fondly Dean reflected on the bedding of strippers past but refrained from commenting, possibly because the things the muscles of Dean’s torso were doing as he lifted his arms to pull his shirt over his head were too distracting.

“You could have invited me to join every once in a while, you know,” Crowley pointed out grumpily. “I enjoy tits and twats as much as the next man.”

“Well, there _were_ those triplets,” Dean reminded him, plopping down in the chair in front of the demon to pull on his boots. Crowley’s eyebrow lifted and he conceded the point with an agreeable shrug.

“Heh. Ah, the Triplets. Good times,” he nodded. They both took a moment to reminisce. Crowley glanced over at Dean and narrowed his eyes. “Want to have another go?” He seemed hopeful but not optimistic.

Dean pulled himself out of triple-mint daydreams to roll his eyes at the demon. Crowley was about as far from that pretty vision as one could get. Still, the memory of what they’d just done was fresh, and Dean had to adjust his position in his chair to accommodate the effects of it. The evening hadn’t been entirely disagreeable and the relationship...or whatever this was...held real potential for even more adventurous opportunities.

Not that he was going to let on that he was considering them. He groaned at Crowley’s unveiled attempt at bedroom eyes and took out his phone to contact Sam. “I’m not sure yet that I wanted the last one,” he muttered, scrolling through his contacts to pull up Sammy’s number. For some reason, he hesitated to hit ‘call’.

“Was good, though, wasn’t it?” Crowley objected with an insecure little frown. The bastard was manipulative as hell and deceptive by nature, and these unguarded little tics he allowed himself only with the Winchesters made Dean feel just a teensy bit privileged.

As much as Dean hated to admit it, it _had_ been good. And now that he’d had an opportunity to catch his breath, Dean was more than half tempted to take Crowley up on his offer. After all, he was already MIA. What was a few more hours? Once he made the call home, he’d have to head that way, and who knew when they’d have another opportunity.

Unless Crowley arranged to kidnap him again, which Dean felt curiously open to.

“I’m human, Crowley,” he argued finally, reluctant though he was to acknowledge the fact, “and not as young as I used to be.” Whether he wanted another go or not was immaterial. He really wasn’t sure he was up to it.

Crowley scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Would it help if I chained you back up?”

Dean shivered and glanced up to meet his sly look but didn’t answer.

“We could switch it up this time,” Crowley proposed, seeing that Dean was tempted. “I promise to keep your ‘humanity’ in mind,” he said, sauntering over behind Dean to bend and whisper in his ear. “We could establish a safeword,” he added to sweeten the pot. “I can be gentle.”

The silence that followed was pregnant with indecision. Dean could practically feel the hope radiating from the demon still bent close to his ear.

Finally, Dean hit the button on the side of his phone and its screen went black. “Well, now,” he said, tucking into his pocket. “Don’t go too far.”

Crowley gave a small but triumphant chuckle. “Still,” he whispered with a wink, “I’ll go fetch some lube, shall I?”

After he blinked from sight, Dean heaved a sigh and glanced at the chains dangling from the metal columns nearby, wondering what the hell he was getting himself into.


End file.
